Stayin' Alive
by thesociallyawkwardtwins
Summary: "John Watson, today is the right day to die." Moriarty and John have a conversation on the rooftop of St. Bart's. Alternate end to the Reichenbach Fall.


_Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Sherlock (neither the characters, nor the quotes)_

_A/N: Hello! This is my first serious attempt at a Sherlock fanfiction, and I just wanted to put it up here to see what people think of it. Hopefully all the characters are properly in character... Also, the dialogue is much more fun if you read Moriarty's lines like Andrew Scott would read them :D_

_Again, this is basically an alternate ending to the Reichenbach fall. Prepare for angst._

* * *

_**Stayin' Alive**_

_Life going nowhere, somebody help me_

_Somebody help me, yeah_

_Life going nowhere, somebody help me, yeah_

_I'm staying alive_

The revelation that there's something seriously wrong going on falls on top of John Watson the second that he sees Mrs. Hudson safe and sound inside 221B. You'd think he'd be filled with relief to see that she's not mortally wounded— which he _is_— but that feeling is overwhelmed by a sense of dread. Something is undoubtedly wrong. Why else would he have been lead from Sherlock's side by a lie as terrible as this.

"Is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson asks. "Has Sherlock sorted it out with the police yet?"

John is drowning in his thoughts. This final game is becoming too complex for him to understand. Surely, the only reason Sherlock wouldn't leave the hospital was the fact that he knew this was a false trail. How could John have been so stupid?

"John, what's wrong?" Mrs. Hudson asks, her voice taking on a motherly quality. "You look awfully pale. Has something happened to Sherlock?"

"No, no," John manages to force out through his confusion. "Everything's…fine. I just— I'll be back later."

Without much more of an explanation to Mrs. Hudson, John stumbles back through the front door of the flat and hales a cab. He's barely had time to give the address to the cabbie when his phone dings. He fishes it out of his pocket, expecting to see a self-satisfied text from Sherlock, but instead he sees a message from a blocked number.

_Meet me on the rooftop._

John almost swears out loud. His first thought is that it's Sherlock just being stupid, but it doesn't seem like Sherlock to not use his own phone. Besides, what device would he be using that would come across as a blocked number. With Sherlock ruled out, that could leave any number of other murderous psychopaths as possible suspects.

Another ding.

_It's important :)_

The smiley face leaves only one possibility (besides a complete stranger who's gotten the wrong number). Jim Moriarty.

An unconscious growl forms at the back of John's throat. He grits his teeth against the wave of revulsion, and his fist clenches reflexively around his cellphone. Of course it's the ringleader of all hell who's in charge of this. Of course Moriarty would lead John away from St. Bartholomew's with such an easily placed lie. Only, John would have expected that Moriarty would use his absence to mess with Sherlock, but, then again, does anyone really know what's going on inside that insane head of his?

The last time Moriarty targeted John directly was that whole bomber incident, whose scarring memories are still rather fresh in John's mind. True, he did witness much worse things while in Afghanistan, but in his slightly fragile, newly-civilian mind, having bombs strapped to his chest was severely traumatic. Standing there as his life was controlled by a madman with a piercing red light pointed unwavering at his chest isn't something John fancies going through again. And what was worse was that it wasn't only John's life that was on the line either. Sherlock also escaped death by a hairbreadth that evening.

What could Moriarty possibly want this time?

Hasn't he really done enough? For god's sake, Moriarty nearly went to prison just to shake things up a bit. Just to complicate things _that much _further. He's killed countless human beings, set up endlessly confusing false trails, negotiated terrible crimes… But all for what? To make Sherlock dance?

_Hurry, Dr. Watson. I'm far too excited to see you._

Disgust boils up in the back of John's throat. Every word that man says makes John feel like he's physically piling sins onto his skin.

But, besides that, a certain sort of fear starts to eat away at the back of John's mind. This could be leading him into a million different scenarios, none of which sound particularly pleasant. Sherlock could very well be actively dying right this moment if Moriarty wanted it done. In an eye blink, with one single word from Moriarty's mouth, Sherlock Holmes could be killed… All because of John's absence…

The cab rolls up to the curb in front of St. Bartholomew's, but John's hardly paying attention. It takes a couple seconds for him to realize they've come to a stop, and then he distractedly tosses some money in the driver's lap without even bothering to count it. Thoughts dart around in his head like bees, and he ponders ignoring the texts and trying to find Sherlock, but ultimately he gets worried (or interested) enough to text back. The odds of him surviving if he doesn't comply are slim.

_What rooftop? St. Bart's? JW. _

John watches the taxi driver disappear around the corner down the block, and he looks up at the rooftops around him, suddenly feeling a million eyes watching him.

The response is almost instant.

_Come right up _

John's chest constricts as he wheels around to face the hospital. Shielding his eyes against the brilliant sun, he desperately searches the rooftop for signs of a madman. His eyes voraciously take in any shadow he can see against the light, but they're just birds, not a psychopathic consulting criminal.

John jerks his arm back to his side and marches towards the hospital door. He's a trained soldier, but his heart still races when he knows he's in danger. But there's definitely a steadiness in the way that he starts up the stairs. A determination.

He goes up a couple flights of stairs and then pauses on the landing on the floor that Sherlock should be on. Just past a door, a hallway, and another door, Sherlock Holmes could be sitting on the floor of a laboratory, bouncing a ball off some cabinets. Or he could be ten stories above John Watson, inches from death. There's no way to tell.

A tiny click sounds around the small space as John's hand closes around the door handle. His wrist has barely turned a centimeter when his cellphone dings. John freezes, his muscles tense. Ever so slowly, he unfurls his fingers from around the handle and lets his arm drop to his side. After determining that this retraction seems correct, he allows himself to pull out the cellphone.

_I wouldn't do that if I were you._

John's chest tightens again. A panic sets in throughout his body like electric shocks. That single text adds another layer of danger and mystery to this whole mess— layers upon layers. One, it means his every action is being monitored by Moriarty; two, it means that Sherlock could be in extreme danger. Why else would Moriarty tell John not to go find him?

Another ding, and the screen lights up in his palm.

_Don't worry, Dr. Watson. Darling Sherlock will be perfectly safe as long as you do as you're told._

Something starts to burn in the pit of John's stomach as he takes a step away from the door in front of him. If he looks through the tiny glass window in the door, he can almost see the door that Sherlock is behind. It's an impulse for John to want to ignore the text and warn Sherlock anyway. They are a team after all— Holmes and Watson, one is never seen without the other. But Moriarty's text is like a knife shoved between his ribs. If John even takes a single step towards the door, he could be throwing Sherlock into extreme danger.

Stuffing his phone back in his pocket, John starts up the stairs once again. With every move upwards, John becomes more and more aware of the pounding of his heart. He is reminded of moments from his time in Afghanistan— when hoards of wounded soldiers would be brought to him to fix, and he had that dreadful sinking in the pit of his stomach that told him that he'd lose a lot of them. Too many of them.

That dreadful sinking feeling is pooling in his stomach right now, except this time he's the one in danger.

Somehow, John manages to reach the very top of the stairs, and all that's between him and quite possibly the sickest, most disturbed human being in the world is a rusty door. Very distantly, John thinks he can hear music. Upbeat music. Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees.

Slowly, John's hand reaches out for the door knob and turns it. The door creaks loudly as it opens, letting out a long-held sigh of fear. Sure enough, John wasn't imagining the music. It gently lilts from the opposite end of the rooftop, and the lyrics momentarily dull the terror welling up inside John's chest. _Staying alive. _That would be comforting if it was true.

"Hello, John," a familiar and sickening voice calls out over the distance. "Long time, no see."

Their eyes meet from opposite ends of the rooftop, and the strange hate between the two of them is almost tangible in the air. John's eyes skirt down over Moriarty's cold-blooded suit and shiny shoes that look like he's never committed a crime in his life. In actuality, though, he's drowning in the blood of a million murders.

Flashbacks dart in front of John's eyes. The darkness of the drugs and the sack as they came over his head. The weight of the bombs getting strapped over his chest. The feeling of the parka being pulled over his arms to hide the wires. The sound of it zipping up over the explosives.

"Hello," John practically growls out. He clears his throat, trying to think of words that can capture exactly what he's feeling. "I was hoping we'd never meet again."

"Oh, John," Moriarty says casually, as though John had just asked him how he was doing. "You ordinary people are so free with your words. If you knew what was going to happen, you might choose your words a bit more carefully."

Dread fills John's throat and nearly chokes him. "What's that supposed to mean?" he growls harshly.

Moriarty is remarkably unfazed. He casually leans back against the barrier at the edge of the roof, his eyes sparkling with mirth and pleasure at John's petty confusion. "You will know in time, dear John," he says smoothly. "You will know in time."

John's eyes dart from one end of the rooftop to another. Nothing seems out of place— just a normal rooftop. Down below them, on the street, everything goes by like everything is just as it was yesterday. None of the passersby on the ground know that John and most likely Sherlock are both in mortal danger.

"Anyway, we've never had a chance to talk properly," Moriarty says, nodding for John to join him by the edge. "I was hoping we could take this time to have a nice _chat._"

A shiver runs down John's spine as he makes his slow walk across the rooftop. The air seems far too still to be normal. John can hear every footstep that he makes across the expanse, and maybe he can even hear his own heartbeat. The lines of Stayin' Alive float through the stagnant air towards his ears. _Staying alive, staying alive…_

Finally John reaches the other side of the rooftop, and Moriarty reveals the source of the strangely chosen music. He picks up his phone from the ledge and holds it up.

"Staying alive," he says slowly. "It's so _boring._"

John feels his anger flare up from within his chest. How can a man such as this think that killing endless amounts of people is boring? Is spilling that much blood not good enough? He acts as if the death of children is just something you talk about over tea like birthdays and promotions and gossip. Who cares if you've driven half of London to paranoia? Life is just _so _boring.

Moriarty jerks his finger across the screen of his phone, effectively cutting off the music, and looks over at John. "It's just a straight line," he says, slicing his hand across an invisible flat plane in front of his eye. "It's just _staying… _And that's the final problem. Staying alive is just too boring, John."

Wouldn't the world just love to know that the man who spills all the blood only does it to cure his boredom?

"My whole life has been full of distractions. _Distractions,_ each just as boring the one before it," Moriarty says, his eyes sweeping the sky until coming to rest on the side of John's face. "Until Sherlock. Sherlock was the best distraction yet, but now he's so _boring." _

He draws out the last word, letting it settle in the air. John leans forward on the railing in front of him, staring pointedly at the empty windows of the building across from them so that he doesn't have to look at Moriarty. His fingers curl around the rail tightly until his knuckles turn white from exertion.

"I need to find a way to make staying alive more interesting, John," Moriarty says, moving from his perch so that he's standing direction next to John. "I need to find another way to make Sherlock _dance."_

John's skin crawls, and the rage boils inside him with such ferocity that it feels like it's going to explode out of him. With Moriarty standing so close, John is thrown deep into a memory. He keeps remembering that night at the pool when he had the explosives strapped to his body, and there was nothing he could do to ignore the red pinpoint of light that was aimed at his chest. But the terror at being a forced suicide bomber was nothing in comparison to the voice coming through the ear piece. Whispering things in his ear, making him _say _things…

"You… want to make him _dance?" _John asks in a shaking, rage-filled whisper.

Moriarty's eyes dance with something like a glimmer of joy. "I have to destroy him."

The rage explodes. "You already have destroyed him!" John shouts, and he feels it echo around the still air. His hands slam down on the railing, causing a metallic ring to replace the sound of his voice. For some reason, it feels as though the people on the street should be able to hear him, but they just keep on walking, focused on their destinations or what they're going to eat for dinner or when they're going to see their boyfriend. They don't hear a trapped man's cry for help.

A sound of amusement bubbles from the back of Moriarty's throat. "So _feisty_… No wonder Sherlock likes you."

John lets out a haggard breath and turns to face his enemy directly for the first time in this conversation. "Look, just cut the bullshit. Why am I here? Why did you ask me here?"

"Because Sherlock's destruction doesn't just end with ruining his reputation. No, no, _no, _that's just the beginning," Moriarty says evenly. "Dearest Sherlock likes to play pretend his itty, bitty mind is the most important thing to him, but it's not, is it, Dr. Watson?"

It all starts to settle in John's mind, but he forces thoughts of resignation out of his head. He tries to focus on a way to get out of this… He can't think of a thing.

"I will burn the _heart _out of Sherlock Holmes because that heart does exist," Moriarty whispers, his voice carrying across the silence to descend on John's ears. "He's so boring—so predictable—in that way, John. He let himself get attached."

John can feel Moriarty's eyes burning into the side of his face. It's like being watched under a microscope in the last moments of your life. How uncomfortable, how invasive. Being stripped down to almost nothing right before you lose everything.

"John Watson, today is the right day to die."

It's almost as if the roof has been removed from underneath John's feet. His world flips and angles in alarming ways, throwing him onto unsteady feet. The threat descends like the roll of thunder that shakes the air moments before a ravaging storm trundles in. Distant lighting and distant thunder. The storm is unavoidable.

"Oh my god," John whispers, staggering under the weight of the situation.

Moriarty struts behind John like a predator enclosing its prey. He speaks from right behind John's left shoulder, taunting John with his manipulative ability.

"I'm glad you picked a tall building," Moriarty whispers. "It makes things… _easier_."

"No," John whispers. He can't think of anything else to say, even though he'd rather be much more articulate in his last few moments.

"_Yes," _Moriarty says, mocking John in a high-pitched whine.

John takes in a deep breath and looks around desperately for any form of help. He searches the windows of the building opposite them, the rooftops, the sky even. But the birds circling in the sunlight don't seem to want to save John Watson from his flight to death.

"You'll just be another suicide to the papers, won't you be?" Moriarty whispers, barely audible. "But not to _him_."

John's mind starts to work at such a rapid pace that he can't even focus on all the thoughts that go flying through his head. He thinks about Sherlock, reclining against the counters of the lab a few floors below, bouncing a ball rhythmically against the opposite wall. He thinks about the effect that his death would have on Sherlock's life. He thinks about what it feels like to fly. He thinks about what a bird feels as it darts straight towards the pavement, only to change the angle of flight at the very last second.

But, mostly, he thinks about Sherlock.

"I suppose that makes you _happy_, though," Moriarty says in a condescending tone. "You ordinary people are always so sentimental. You always want someone to _care _after you've died. Sherlock will _care, _don't worry. His little heart will burn."

The world starts to spin. If only John Watson could go back a couple hours. Even a couple minutes. If he knew this was how it was going to end, he would have chosen a different route and prayed that it wouldn't lead to the same spot: standing with his toes so close to the edge.

"Up you get, Mr. Watson," Moriarty says, grinning. "I haven't got all day."

John feels throb of rage and stubbornness at the back of his mind. There may still be a chance to say no. "And what if I refuse?" John asks. His voice cuts with the ragged edge of a dulling blade. "Will you put a bullet through my head and make it look like I pulled the trigger myself?"

"Oh _no, _of course not," Moriarty replies, almost laughing. "No, John, the gun is pointed at you're the people you care most about."

John's heart gives a heavy thud.

"You see, John, if you don't jump right now, all your friends will die," Moriarty taunts, moving closer to John's left shoulder. "Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stanford… There's a _little, itty bitty _target on every single one of their heads."

John imagines all of them carrying along one their normal day without even knowing that there's a bullet with their name on it. Every word could be the last one they say. Every step could be their final step. Every breath could be their last.

"I might even pull the trigger on Sherlock."

That has the most profound effect over John. Sherlock is as close to John as anyone has ever been. They've lived together for so long that they can be nothing but best friends.

John's words don't come out as convincingly as he'd have hoped. "You wouldn't shoot Sherlock."

"I might."

"But you want him to dance."

"It would be awfully selfish of you to let all your other friends die before I get to him. That wouldn't be a _soldierly_ thing to do. To let them all die before you sacrifice yourself. No, that wouldn't be a soldierly thing to do at _all._"

That is it, then. There are no other options, no ways to get out. If Moriarty is willing to threaten the life of his favorite toy, this is where it is going to end. For John Watson, this is the final line of the final act in the play of his life. This is the end.

"So do you let everyone you love and care about die by your hands, or do you jump to keep Sherlock breathing?" Moriarty asks, his voice travelling lightly on the breeze. Suddenly, laughter punctures the serenity of his voice. "It's not like you have much of a choice."

It's true. There isn't a choice.

"Up you get, John. It's time to take your bow."

He only hesitates a moment before stepping up onto the barrier between the rooftop and a many story drop.

John Watson has never felt this sick in his entire life, not even in Afghanistan. Not even when he was bleeding to death after having been shot in the shoulder. In this moment, his legs feel as though they aren't legs anymore. His head feels too heavy to hold up straight, and, consequently, the world seems to angle and darken and move in alarming ways. His lungs struggle to take in enough breath to calm his nerves, but it's to no avail.

Sure, he must have been terrified in that moment after he'd been shot in the shoulder. It was pain beyond belief—of course, he remembers that vividly. But it wasn't as terrifying as this.

Maybe it's because now, with his toes inches from the edge of the building, there's a certain feeling of finality that John cannot ignore. The feeling is so conclusive that it's chilling. For the first time in his life, John feels like there's no way to escape this situation. He starts to hear Moriarty's voice whispering in the back of his mind.

_Today is the right day to die. _

Maybe it is.

He inches forward so that the toes of his shoes stick out beyond the edge. The distance to the pavement, which may not seem so large from the road, now seems like a drop from the heavens. John is overtaken by a sudden wave of nausea, and his mind spins so much that he's worried he'll fall to his death, unprepared for the impact.

John closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of the breeze stirring past him. It feels so _nice. _So nice to just be alive.

He thinks about Sherlock. He wonders how he could hate someone so keenly and love them so deeply at the same time. There's that odd feeling of closeness that once again washes over him, reminding him of how alone he was before he met Sherlock. And how full he feels now.

He's willing to die so that Sherlock may live. No, he's more than willing. It's a pleasure to die for someone he cares for so much.

"Don't be scared," Moriarty's voice invades John's thoughts so softly. "Falling is just like flying… except there's a much more permanent destination."

John hates himself for having to ask, but he clears his throat. "May I say goodbye?"

"Certainly."

John's hand reaches numbly into his pocket and retrieves his cellphone. His thumb hovers over the Call button for a fraction of a second, but he moves it away. There's no way he could hold himself together if he heard Sherlock's voice. He'd fall to his knees the second he would think of the words _Goodbye, Sherlock. _

He hates himself for his cowardice, but a text is all he can handle. His fingers are numb as they type the message, which is so carefully thought out in his head that it hurts.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock. Remember me well._

And then he hits send, and his phone goes back into his pocket.

John takes in one last, sustaining breath and closes his eyes. Behind him, he can hear Moriarty take in a breath as well, waiting with a smile for John to disappear over the edge.

_Get him out of your head._ John begs himself. There's no worse feeling in the world than knowing someone drove you to kill yourself. He doesn't want to die with Moriarty's eyes burning into the back of his head.

He wants to die silently, unafraid, alone.

So Moriarty disappears from his consciousness, and John leaves himself with the feeling of the air swelling up around him. There's a noise behind him—like a couple of birds taking flight, soaring towards the sun with weightless joy in their chests.

John follows him.

And, for a moment, he knows what it's like to fly.

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes was never meant to care. He was never meant to comprehend to magnitude of grief and agony of loss. _

_And yet, standing at the foot of John Watson's grave, Sherlock is completely undone._

_There's a hole inside him, one he was unprepared to heal. One that he cannot name, nor comprehend. It's as deep as it is painful- seemingly endless in its ability to destroy. _

_There's also guilt. _

_Sherlock Holmes has never felt guilt before. He has been living under the impression that he is completely heartless, unfeeling, and unbiased. Now, he knows otherwise. John Watson died so that he might live on (Sherlock will never be able to understand what he did for John to think he had to do something like that), and that's what true guilt feels like. _

_Sherlock should be dead. John should be alive. _

_Guilt. _

_A hand lands on Sherlock's shoulder. "Brother dearest, I told you caring wasn't an advantage."_

"_Isolation isn't either," Sherlock replies roughly, jerking his shoulder out from Mycroft's touch._

"_I beg to differ."_

_Sherlock, whose rage is just as infinite as his grief, cannot think of anything that he'd like to retort with. There's only one thing that keeps repeating itself through his mind, and he says it out loud without thinking._

"_I will ruin him."_

_Mycroft sighs. "Ruin who?"_

"_Moriarty. I will ruin him if it's the last thing I do." _

"_I'm not used to hearing such noble and self-sacrificing things coming out of your mouth. Perhaps John's death has been a blessing upon us all._

_Sherlock bristles. "John's death will never be a blessing to _you. _John died so that I might destroy Moriarty. That was his last wish, and I will not disappoint him."_

_Mycroft doesn't respond._

_Sherlock moves rather forcefully to the gravestone and gently sets his hand down on top of it. "I will remember you well, John." His voice cracks as he finishes speaking, and he strides off, ducking his head, before anything else can be said. _

_Mycroft watches him go, terrified by the fact that his brother has finally been touched by care for another human being. With Sherlock fueled by rage and vengeance, Jim Moriarty is certainly not long for the world._

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Drop a review and let me know what you thought! Reviews make my day :D_


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